


Room With a View

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Cheating, First Time, Kindness, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking in or looking out, I'm not sure which.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room With a View

After Ray's freak out, Walt checks with Alpha and Charlie to see if anyone's got any Ripped Fuel. No luck.

"Sorry, Hasser," Kocher says. Walt nods, but he knows Kocher's got more bullshit to deal with than most of them, so he just says _no big deal_.

It kind of is, though. There's still too much fighting and gunfire at night for sleep to be even near decent, and it's impossible to predict what Ray will be like if he doesn't have ephedrine and he doesn't get some rest. Without his constant chatter and energy, morale could go way down in what little time they have left.

Doc gives him some cream for Ray's face, so all Walt can do is give him that and see if someone's got a relatively clean magazine or photo.

*

Walt's allergy doesn't stop him from swapping MREs with Ray, peanut butter for jalapeño and cheese, plus a bag of Skittles.

Ray eats them blank-faced, like they're tasteless. There's no emotion in his features—the first time Walt's seen him like that—and it's a little scary, if he's honest. Normally Ray's lap will be full of crumbs after he's just eaten a pack of crackers, and his MOPP suit gets stained whenever he's lucky enough to snag a milkshake. (Walt's unlucky when that happens, though, because the powder turns his lips an obscene pink that Walt wants to make with his teeth in Ray's lip.)

Now, Ray eats his stale brownie in neat, careful bites. His cammies are stained with dirt and sand, but no chocolate at all.

*

A few nights later (Ray's lying a few meters away from Walt on the hard ground—no graves tonight, so Walt can look over and see Ray stock-still and corpselike) it gets so bad that Walt seriously considers giving Ray one of the letters Alissa sent him. Not so Ray could jerk off to it or anything. Just so he'd have something outside of combat. Something more real.

*

They get orders to return to Kuwait, where they'll be stuck at Camp Virginia for at least a week before heading back stateside by way of Germany. The thought of hot showers, fresh food, a comfortable bed, and no danger lures Walt in like a nymph on an island.

But he's not sure he's ready to go back. He killed a man—a _civilian_ —unprovoked, and he'll have to reconcile with that sooner or later. He remembers the sick babies crying and the shepherd kids Trombley shot, and wonders why he should go home when staying in combat means he can compartmentalize everything. He sort of wants to go AWOL—not to get booted from the Corps; just to get away from everything for a while.

*

Amenities are the only incentive to go home he can think of. And Alissa, of course, but he doesn't know how to go back to her.

He doesn't know if she'll want him.

* 

Orders are orders, though, so the platoon goes. _Walt_ goes. If he were going to disappear, the Middle East would be the last place he'd want to do it. Chicago or New York would be better choices, or maybe Mexico. There's enough desert down there for him to just fade into it around sunset, or blend in among a group of drunk college kids. It dawns on him that he could lose himself, that he doesn't know what he wants to do after this.

Driving the Humvee makes Walt feel like, at any moment, he could veer off the road and straight into a field of land mines, or into a hamlet full of women and children. It's a small price to pay so Ray can finally get some sleep, and once he's on the highway and fifty klicks are behind them, Walt can relax a little. Brad even lets him sing country music under his breath, as long as Walt promises not to wake "the demented, crack-addled hick in the backseat." Trombley keeps his SAW pointed out the window while scarfing down roll after roll of Charms.

Something's missing, though—something besides Ray's incessant chatter—and it makes Walt feel strange. He eventually realizes that the _scritch scritch scritch_ of Reporter's pencil against paper is gone, no one taking down their every word.

*

When they're back in California, Ray switches from ephedrine to double shots of espresso. It makes him twitchy and hyper, like he's coked-up. He can't seem to sit still, but his humor's gone.

Walt buys a few cans of Monster and some chips for Ray; it might just be his imagination, but Ray seems a little bit more like himself.

*

Alissa's barely speaking to him. She won't touch him at all. Her friends say she's not used to having him around and the feeling will pass in a few weeks; he just needs to give her space. That's hilarious, _him_ giving _her_ space. He's always heard that _he'd_ need space after combat. Right now, all he wants to do is hold his girlfriend, kiss her and feel alive.

Maybe she sees him as a killer now. Maybe she found someone else while he was away. In any case, he's not holding his breath, even though he wants things to be okay between them. He's learned that he can't spend time and energy caring about something if the other person involved is willing to throw it away so easily.

*

In the next few weeks, the platoon starts to splinter, alliances shifting as futures are being determined. Colbert's staying in, of course (like he could do anything else), but he's doing a two-year exchange with the RM's Special Boat Service. Rudy re-ups, while Pappy'll be doing desk duty for a bit while he struggles through the second half of his PT and strength training.

Somehow, Encino Man gets promoted to Major while Kocher gets a chewing out, extra duties, and docked pay for a month; Gunny Wynn is almost charged with insubordination. Espera's asked to leave Recon, so he leaves the Marines period. It's absolute bullshit. "No way I'm deployin' with dumb jocks and pussies watching my six this time," he says. "Ain't worth it."

The LT goes back and forth, makes Captain, goes back and forth some more, and then gives his notice. Walt can't believe they're losing such a good officer, but the LT tells him Morel—the replacement he's picked—is even better. That's kind of hard to believe, but at least he'll be decent.

Ray gets a combat meritorious promotion to Sergeant. After hearing the news, Walt stops for beer and half of In-N-Out's menu and heads to Ray's apartment to celebrate.

"I can't imagine what Mattis must've been smoking," Walt says, taking a long drink of his beer. "Wonder if he'd give me some so I can see you as all responsible and shit, leading your Humvee into battle."

"Fuck you," Ray replies. "Anyway, I did an excellent job leading the platoon into battle."

"Just don't end up with someone like Trombley on your team and you'll be fine."

"I won't." Ray takes a huge bite of his double-double burger, his eyes purposely not meeting Walt's.

"Come on. You will. Just don't swear as much." Okay, so Ray may not be Team Leader of the Year right off the bat, but Walt knows if he's half as good at that as he is with radios, his platoon will be in great shape. When Ray really wants to, he can take things seriously.

"No," Ray clarifies. "I'm leaving. I'm sick of the bullshit. I'm sick of the stupidity and the desert. I don't want to kill any more civilians or just sit there while we let suspicious-looking motherfuckers go on to set up more IEDs. I hate not sleeping for days on end. I hate being fucking starving half the time. I proved to the world I could be a Marine, and I proved it to myself. There's no reason for me to do PT and hump ammo and freeze my balls off on some mountain. Brad's the type for it. I'm not. I could've gone to college; I chose the Corps instead. But that's done. I want to sleep late and eat junk food. I want to not get shot at and open up a bar or something. I want—"  

Walt kisses him then. He's wanted to for so long, and he knows now he wouldn't wreck Ray's career if Ray accidently blabbed. They can deal with Walt's. There are ways of skirting DADT.

Ray's mouth tastes like grease and salt, ice cream and soda. It should be disgusting, but it's somehow not. His lips part, and then the air between them mixes as they breathe. Walt can feel the warm puffs on his face while his fingers are still wrapped around the cold neck of his beer bottle. It falls to the floor and shatters into pieces when Ray slips his tongue into Walt's mouth, fucking it like he would with his cock, and it gets Walt so fucking hot he actually whimpers. And squirms. Simultaneously.

"Godfucking _dammit_ , Ray," he grunts, shoving his hips up in hopes of finding some friction. "Don't be a tease."

"'M not," Ray insists. He's not, really, giving Walt too much and not enough at the same time; Walt's just greedy and not ashamed of it. He didn't know kissing could be like this, so dizzy and all-encompassing that he could spend hours doing it.

Not according to his dick, though, which is already halfway hard and doesn't want to slow down. It jerks when Ray climbs into Walt's lap, the cords of muscle in his arms standing out as he shifts. His tattoos are even darker against his pale skin because he's sweating a little, and that makes Walt want to see the one Ray supposedly has on his hip, leave a thumbprint bruise next to it.

His train of thought is interrupted when Ray tugs Walt's hair the best he can to expose Walt's throat; the mark Ray leaves throbs in time with Walt's racing heart. It hurts, but it's the good kind of hurt, and he gets even by pressing the heel of his hand _hard_ against Ray's dick.

"Come on, homes," Ray says, voice slightly pained. "Can we take a break from the tonsil boxing and get this show on the road?" That makes Walt snort with laughter, but he nods in agreement, maneuvering them off the couch and down the hall to where he knows Ray's bedroom is.

*

They're both going to come in their jeans if they keep going like this, humping against each other like horny teenagers in the backseat of a car. Too impatient to wait, Ray gets both their clothes off in what Walt's sure is record time and then scoots to the other end of the bed, feet pointing toward Walt.

"What are you d—" Walt starts, stopping when he realizes exactly what Ray's trying. He's never sucked a guy off before, but for Ray, he'll do it. The rhythm throws him off at first—it's like jerking off, but backwards, and Ray likes a tighter grip than the one Walt normally uses. Just when he thinks he's got it down, Ray moves so he's on his side and swallows Walt down, simple as that. No preamble, no fuss; just his tongue curling around Walt's dick.

It feels amazing, but they're on uneven ground now and that's not fair, so he bites the sharp jut of Ray's hipbone, breathes out, and goes for it. He starts with just the head, testing a few tricks girls used to use on him to see what Ray likes. From the way Ray responds, moaning and slipping a finger behind Walt's balls, whatever Walt's doing is working. Still, though, he feels like he's not doing enough and opens his mouth wider, allowing Ray to slip further in.

That finger pushes into him, exploring a little, and the surprise would make Walt's mouth form an _o_ if he weren't otherwise occupied. Instead, he ends up with Ray's cock in his mouth, warm and heavy on his tongue. The taste is better than he expected, and he's got no gag reflex anymore so he goes with it, following Ray's lead until Ray's moans get so loud Walt can't help but come, body shaking with it.

Ray follows almost immediately, loud even as his fingers turn white from clutching the footboard. Walt can't manage to swallow everything, some salt-bitter pulses ending up on the sheets. If Ray notices, he doesn't care, and he crawls most of the way back up to Walt before falling asleep like that, their bodies touching at all points.


End file.
